“That’s the picture of Sir ’Enery a-kissin’ of the girl hunder the hoak-tree. She’s purtendin’ she don’t like it. I wonder why they always does that in high-class society. I kissed a ’airdresser once, and it was better than a lobster salad--but (_sniff_) that’s neither ’ere nor there.... I like them wonderful whiskers of Sir’’Enery Marjorrybanks--I like ’is name, too, it’s like crackin’ nuts--Marjorrybanks.” “Marchbanks, Victoria!” Victoria May Alice looked hard at the handsome lady before her, suspiciously: “Garn, mem!” said she--“you’re coddin’.” A smile flickered about the corners of Caroline’s mouth: “No,” she said severely--“you must believe me, Victoria.” “Well,” said Victoria May Alice--“I’ll allow I most generally does. But if that there don’t spell Marjorrybanks I’ll darn my stockings.” Caroline Baddlesmere nodded: “Then,” said she, “Victoria May Alice will have to darn her stockings.” Victoria May Alice considered: “No, mem,” said she--“I takes back the stockin’s. I dessay you’re right.” She put her head on one side and surveyed the difficulty with one eye half shut.... She sighed: “All I can say is that it ain’t the way _we_ was taught to spell at the board-school. But I suppose it’s all right. I reckon it’s high-toned and hupper-class to spell things as they ain’t got no reason to be spelled. There was a lady here quite recent as was callin’ on the first floor as is given to indulgence” She tippled with an imaginary glass of wine. “And this party as was callin’ on the one as is given to----” “Hush, Victoria,” said Caroline. “Yes, _you_ know--well, she was a-doin’ of the thing regular formal and in style, I can tell you, powdered footman and a red-nosed geezer with white leather breeches a-sittin’ on the coachman’s box, and all--well, she rings the bell in the old party’s room as--_you_ know--and in I hustles, a-doin’ up my bun on the back of my ’ead with my ’and as I stood at the door. She asked for her broom. ‘Yes, lidy,’ says I, and takes her one up from the kitchen. But she was that short, you’d think I’d hit her on the bonnet!... What d’you think she was gettin’ at?... Why--her bloomin’ brow-ham!” Victoria May Alice, in the attitude of a coachman on his box, and with mighty clucks and “gees” and “whoas,” whipped up imaginary horses. A shrill voice called from far below: “Victoria--May--Yall--liss!” The little maid-of-all-work went out of the door, and, leaning over the balustrade, she called down the stairs at the top pitch of her shrill voice, standing a-tiptoe to give her lean lungs full play: “Yes--marm! I’m a-com--ing!” She came back into the room, and added placidly: “I ’ate ’er voice. It goes through yer like a gimlet.... But (sniff) she ain’t bad--not all through--when you knows ’er.” She sniffed. The shrill voice came mounting up the stairs: “Victoria--May--Yall--liss!” The untidy child stepped quickly back to the door, and putting out her head through the cranny, yelled, with sing-song delivery: